


Haze

by ChampagneSly



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M, Smut, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2012-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-15 17:07:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChampagneSly/pseuds/ChampagneSly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A random AU in which Romano is best friends with Veronika, who happens to be engaged to Alfred, who happens to also be Romano’s friend. Veronika has a bachelorette party and Romano, in his role as incredibly charming and handsome gay BFF, attends. Alfred would like details, please. Romano wishes he could remember what happened after the fourth gin martini. </p><p>Oh, and Spain’s a stripper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Damn, you look terrible! I mean, wow, I’m pretty sure I can smell the booze on you from here. “ Alfred’s shit-eating smile and obvious enjoyment of Romano’s fucking pain made his head ache worse than the racket of his door being pounded on the morning after a night of gin-drenched debauchery. Romano tried to kill him with his deadliest glare, but the idiot kept right on talking, “Also, you totally passed out in those clothes, didn’t you? You’ve still got someone’s lipstick on your collar. Someone had fun!

Romano blinked through the haze of too little and piss-poor sleep, touching a hand to his neck as he tried to recall how he’d ended up with someone’s lips on his shirt. He had a vague, watery memory of Veronika insisting they do body shots, but he didn’t really feel like disclosing to Alfred that he now possessed close, personal knowledge of his fiance’s tongue. He’d save it for some other morning when Alfred was being too cheerful and he needed two minutes of peace to get his fucking work done. The thought was just comforting enough for Romano to forgive his best friend for staining one of his favorite shirts with her best red lipstick. 

“You only wish you could look this good after the night I’ve had. Or look this good period, you ugly bastard. Now, what the fuck are you doing here?” Romano glared and brushed his hands down the wrinkled Emporio Armani that had apparently served as his pajamas. He didn’t really remember coming home, so he wasn’t exactly surprised that he’d collapsed on the nearest available surface still dressed in his most fabulous party attire. Gin was a cruel fucking mistress. 

“Just checking up on you. Veronika texted me this morning and said you didn’t crash at the W with the rest of them. Said she wanted me to make sure her darling Romano didn’t end up in a gutter somewhere.” Alfred grinned and shoved his way into Romano’s apartment, which Romano decided to allow because he was pretty sure he could smell coffee and Alfred had a little bag that his stomach hoped contained one of those buttery croissants from the bakery down the street. Alfred winked and chucked the bag at him, “Also I brought you breakfast.” 

“Thank fuck you did, even if I don’t need a goddamned babysitter.” Romano grumbled gratefully, tearing into croissant and letting its flaky, buttery goodness go to work on his reservoir of liquor. Granted, he didn’t remember how he got home, but he definitely didn’t need his best friend’s boyfriend checking up on him the morning after. He returned to lounging carelessly on the sofa, eyeing the coffee and wondering when Alfred was going to give up the dark, bitter, wonderful goods. He swallowed and licked the crumbs from his lips, pointing at the treasure clutched in Alfred’s hands, “You wanna give me that, already?” 

“In a minute.” Alfred’s grin turned sly and Romano knew the bastard well enough to know that he was about to get played. Sometimes, Romano really hated his friends. “First, how about you tell me all about the big bachelorette shindig?” 

“Why the hell do you want to know?” Romano arched an unimpressed eyebrow and bit viciously into his baked good, pretending it was Alfred’s stupid fucking smile. With every moment Alfred held out on the espresso, Romano was reconsidering why he’d ever once thought Alfred was a sort-of decent guy. 

Clearly a man with no sense for imminent danger, Alfred made himself at home on the couch and smiled innocently. “I just want to make sure Veronika had a damned good time.” 

Romano rolled his eyes. “Then why don’t you go ask her and leave me alone with the coffee and my hangover?” 

“Whatever dude, like she’s going to tell me all the dirty details,” Alfred cajoled, nudging Romano’s shoulder and poking at the lipstick stain on his shirt. “And from the looks of it, there’s definitely some dirty laundry that needs airing. C’mon, give me the low-down. You’re the only guy I know that’s awesome enough to breach the inner sanctum of bachelorette debauchery!”

“Damn right.” Romano preened, all too aware of how fucking smooth he was, rolling with a bevy of beautiful women, even if he’d never be interested in their more intimate inner sanctums. Romano loved the ladies and the ladies loved Romano. 

Alfred waggled his eyebrows, eyes glinting with irritating mischief behind his smudged glasses. ”So, did my beautiful bride to be do anything wild and crazy? And if so, is there any photographic evidence you might be willing to share with your best pal?”

“We went out, we danced, we got drunk. The end.” Romano snapped, reaching across Alfred’s stupidly broad chest to swipe at the coffee. Alfred chuckled and held it just out of reach. Romano bared his teeth. “And I like Veronika a hell of a lot more than I like you, pal.” 

“Who doesn’t? She’s pretty much the best thing ever. That’s why I’m marrying her!” Alfred laughed affectionately, endearing himself a little to Romano for his impeccable taste in women. Of course, Alfred didn’t deserve her, but no one did, and if she had to marry someone, Romano figured it might as well be this sweetheart of an idiot. “But seriously, I need to know. Were there strippers?” 

“You’re a nosy fucker, you know?” Romano groused. Alfred smiled shamelessly and dangled the coffee in front of his face. Romano eyed him suspiciously, cracking his fingers and wondering if he could cop an insanity plea if he throttled the bastard. “Why do you wanna know about the strippers?”

“Ah-ha! So there were strippers!” Alfred crowed. 

“I can neither confirm nor deny.” Romano hedged even as his thoughts were flooded by hazy memories of gin-martinis, disco balls, lazy smiles, and startlingly green eyes. He couldn’t remember why, but something about that combination made his throat run dry and his cheeks flush. 

“Dude, it’s not like I mind! Hell, I hope you got my girl an awesome lap-dance from the best looking guy in the joint!” Alfred insisted, interrupting Romano’s belabored efforts to piece together the events of the night before, the excited fluttering in his chest telling him he was forgetting something really fucking important. 

“You’re one weird bastard, wanting to know shit like that.” Romano taunted absently, distracted by the blurred memory of tiny pink shorts and a sweet smile that made him feel hot and twitchy, which were both things he didn’t need to fucking feel while sitting next to one of his closest friends. Clearly, he needed to figure out what the hell had happened last night before he went and got turned on while shooting the breeze with his best friend’s fiance. Romano sighed and scrubbed his face with his hand, “Look, everything after martini number four is a blur, but if I tell you what I remember, will you give me the goddamned coffee and get the hell out of my house?” 

Alfred smiled with the sort of smug sweetness that made Romano want to punch him in the face. “You’ve got yourself a deal.” 

~~

He was so drunk, but Veronika was so happy and so beautiful and this was her big night, so if she wanted to have one more drink while putting dollar bills in some cheesy stripper’s underpants, Romano wasn’t going to be the one to tell her no. In fact, he was going to be the one to slip his platinum card to the bartender and tell him to keep the liquor flowing while Elizaveta wound an arm around her shoulders and laughingly suggested they get the blushing bride a lapdance. 

Romano scoffed, took another shot, and reminded Elizaveta that Veronika had never been a blushing anything. Elizaveta kissed his cheek, a tipsy, wet press of lips before running off and leaving Romano standing alone at the bar with gin burning in his throat and wondering what lucky bastard was going to get the privilege of being paid a hundred bucks to grind in Veronika’s lap. 

He’d almost dropped the way too fucking expensive drinks when he made his way back to their table and found Veronika’s pretty hands grabbing the nicest ass he’d ever seen. He licked his lips and congratulated a smirking Elizaveta on her damned good taste, even if pink booty shorts were tacky as fuck and he’d always known Veronika preferred blondes to curly haired brunettes. He tried not to be jealous of the way her fingers sunk into that ass that wouldn’t quit, tried not to look hungry and impressed when the dancer finally turned around to writhe in Veronika’s lap and took Romano’s breath away with a face that was as unfortunately attractive as the rear-view. 

The man smiled at him, licked his lips and Romano wanted to ask him if he was thirsty, apparently made stupid by the combination of pink shorts, tanned skin, and green, green eyes. Those eyes stayed with him, staring and staring some more, even as the rest of his body was otherwise engaged in rubbing all over Romano’s best friend. Romano was drunk, maybe too drunk to tell, but he was pretty damned sure that the bastard pushing his fucking perfect ass into Veronika’s hands was checking him out, smiling at him appreciatively and he might have even winked when Romano choked on his drink while watching the slow roll of the asshole’s hips and the spread of his thighs.

It was just wrong, wrong, wrong, and Romano knew he was the biggest kind of idiot to be blushing hotly and feeling jealous of Veronika’s manicured fingers getting to slide dollar bills down those pink skivvies. 

Romano scowled and wished he weren’t drunk enough to be so fucking stupid and obvious even as he wondered how much it would cost him for a minute of this guy’s time. It was reckless and wasteful, but he was loaded up on gin and lust and Romano couldn’t think of a good enough reason not to sit down and let the stripper sit on him. And the stripper just kept lingering near their table, staring at him, and smiling at Romano like he really wanted his business, like he had all night to wait for Romano to make up his mind. But when Romano finally polished off his drink, gathered up the courage to ignore Veronika and Elizaveta’s knowing laughter, and sauntered towards the bastard with cash in hand, Romano got a name instead of what he’d intended to buy. 

“I’m Antonio,” the man said, smiling invitingly and completely ignoring Romano’s question. 

“Right. Antonio.” Romano frowned, uncertain if these days exchanging names was the done thing when trying to get a lap dance. It seemed a little suspicious but the guy was staring at him with such open, easy, expectation that he figured it couldn’t hurt too much to mutter, “I’m Romano,” before he proceeded with his business. 

“Its nice to meet you, Romano.” Antonio said with lazy contentment, like he enjoyed the taste of Romano’s name. Romano flushed and tried to ignore a waving Veronika, who was grinning like the fucking Cheshire Cat and mouthing _“go for it!”_ in Romano’s direction. Antonio laughed. “I hope your friend is having a good time.” 

“Does it look like she’s having a good time?” Romano said testily, baffled as to why the bastard wouldn’t just take his money and give him his dance without the awkward small talk. Antonio nodded, smile crinkling the corners of his green eyes as he lounged against the bar, still dressed in the tacky pink shorts that did irritating things to Romano’s heart-rate. “Then why the hell ask me what you already know?” 

Antonio shrugged, muscles rippling and skin glittering beneath the turn of the disco ball. “Just making conversation.” 

“Do you do this with all your customers?” Romano grumbled, palms sweating around his fistful of twenties as he shifted restlessly. 

Antonio winked and leaned closer, “I think I’d rather buy you a drink than have you buy a dance from me.” 

Romano blushed furiously and looked away. “What the fuck? Why?”

“Because I think you’re adorable when you blush and I like the way you say fuck.” Antonio murmured lowly. “Also you look like you could use one.” 

It was on the tip of Romano’s tongue to insist that what he could use was handful of Antonio’s ass and lot less of the fluttering feeling of warmth in his stomach, clouding his judgement almost as badly as the gin. He was seconds away from informing this guy with his pretty smile and his ridiculous body that it was his fucking fault if Romano looked like he needed another drink and that this better not be some sort of stripper-ploy. But the almost naked idiot was smiling at him like he meant it and the gin had always made Romano a little stupid. So he swallowed his reservations, shoved his money back in his pocket, dared to brush his hand down Antonio’s arm and muttered:

“Fine. You can buy me a fucking drink.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Romano is hungover and a little confused as to what the hell happened last night.
> 
> Note: Camille is Monaco

“So, um, exactly how many drinks did you let stripper-man buy you?” Alfred asked slowly when Romano finished relating all he remembered of Veronika’s bachelorette extravaganza.

Romano frowned and shrugged, “Fuck if I know. A few? Enough to not remember how many but not so many I couldn’t remember how to get home.” His head hurt and he didn’t trust the smirk spreading over Alfred’s stupid, nosy face, but he didn’t think he’d said anything to incriminate his beautiful girl, leaving his vague recollections of Veronika licking whipped cream from a toned stomach out of his gin soaked memories. 

“Riiiiiiight,” Alfred said and Romano considered doing violence to his smarmy and annoying face, but then Alfred finally gave up the good and pushed the coffee into Romano’s greedy, needy hands. Alfred’s smile grew impossibly wider, gaze fixated alarming close to Romano’s crotch, which was understandable because Romano was fucking irresistible, but he so didn’t have time for his best friend’s fiance having some sort of desire for pre-wedding gay safari with Romano as his prey.

“What?” Romano grumbled, closing his legs and shifting away from Alfred and his creepy obsession with his package. No coffee was fucking worth this shit. 

“You said stripper-guy had pink booty shorts?” Alfred leered, getting uncomfortably close with his toothy smile and sudden bout of Romano-itis. 

“That’s what I said.” Romano glared and took a fortifying sip of coffee, at once blessed with the burn of bitterness down his throat and the memory of spandex beneath his fingers, all slippery and nice over an ass of steel. He coughed and flexed his hand around the cup, muttering suspiciously, “Why? You got some new fetish for pink I need to know about, asshole?” 

Alfred laughed lowly and shook his head, “I’m not the one with the fixation, buddy.” Romano huddled against the pillows as Alfred leaned over him, arm wrapping around his waist and actually touching the almighty Vargas hills. 

“What the fuck?! That’s for special someones and invited fucking guests only, capiche!” Romano screeched, vaulting off the couch and spilling the coffee all over the wrinkled dress pants that made handy pajamas for the drunk. He shook an angry fist at Alfred, who was doubled over with laughter and waving a shiny, pink flag of surrender.

Romano’s coffee hit the floor at the same time as his jaw. 

“What the fuck?” He repeated weakly, shaking two disbelieving fingers at an unmistakable pair of stripper shorts with blue streaks scrawled across what had to be the crotch of the tacky garment. 

“Looks like someone got a number last night!” Alfred crowed, dancing around his living room and waving the underwear in front of his face like a matador taunting a bull. He fluttered his eyelashes and did his worst impression of Veronika at her mocking best, “Oh Roma! You stud!” 

“Shut up before I fuck you up, Jones! Gimme the damned things!” Romano hissed, whipping out a hand to grab the man-panties from Alfred’s grasp and holding them out at a safe enough distance to read the chicken-scratch that passed for writing.

_U fell asleep b4 I cld give u that dance. i work 2night at 7. maybe u wanna bring these back 2 me? :D Antonio 510 999-1234_

Romano blinked and blinked again, blinded by the color of the drawers and the hazy memory of stumbling into a strong chest and then through a front door, at which time  there may or may not have been ear licking and slurred demands for a private show. But he was still dressed and he’d woken up on his couch and now there were pink underwear but no Antonio. 

“What the hell?” Romano groused, cheeks flaming and stomach churning from the sheer force of his hangover and monumental regret that he had that sixth (or seventh or eighth) cocktail. 

“They were in your back pocket, bro! Seems like lover-boy wanted to make sure you got his technicolor message. Pretty damned thoughtful, don’t you think? ” Alfred informed him helpfully, sounded far too fucking delighted by the whole debacle. 

Romano lowered the shorts from before his eyes, only to be once more blinded by the horrifying flash of Alfred’s camera in three bursts of light that sealed his doom.  Romano trembled with fury and fear, “So help me God, Jones, if you don’t delete those pictures right this fucking second I will end you!”

“Not gonna happen, man! This is too good!” Alfred laughed and danced out of his reach, using his stupidly long legs to scramble towards the door while his fingers flew over an evil touchscreen and horrible little send-noises echoed in Romano’s ears.

Romano knew for whom the bell fucking tolled. He hung his head in defeat, pink underwear dangling between his fingers. “Christ, you sent that to Veronika, didn’t you?” 

“You know it!” Alfred grinned shamelessly, slinking out the door while Romano was busy ruing the day he was born. “Proof that there were strippers and proof that precious little Roma has a secret admirer? Like that was going to ever stay between us.” 

Romano glared and stomped over to his front door, slamming it on Alfred’s stupid smile as he shouted, “My secret admirer had his fucking balls in your fiance’s face, asshole!” 

“Awesome!” Alfred called out, grating voice audible through the shoddy thin apartment walls. “See you at the bachelor party, stud!”

“Fuck off and die!” Romano yelled, slapping a palm to his forehead only to get a face full of pink spandex. 

By the time the bastard’s laughter had disappeared down the hallway, Romano had a headache that would have killed Zeus, a living room floor doused in coffee, a pair of pink shorts that doubled as cocktail napkin, an invitation to a strip joint at 7pm, and a cell phone that wouldn’t stop fucking vibrating. 

  
~~

**From: Veronika**

**To: Romano, Elizaveta, Camille**

ROMA!! I’d be glad you weren’t in a gutter and totally pissed for telling Al about the strippers, but WHO CARES WHEN YOU’VE GOT THE HOTTIE’S UNDERWEAR. 

DETAILS. Immediately. xoxo. 

**From: Romano**

**To: Veronika, Elizaveta, Camille**

Was it really fucking necessary to make this a group discussion? 

**From: Elizaveta**

**To: Romano, Veronika, Camille**

Let me go ahead and answer on behalf of your bevy of beauties—YES.

Spill, Vargas. 

**From: Romano**

**To: Veronika, Elizaveta, Camille**

Nothing happened. I got drunk, passed out and woke up to find the bastard had left me a little note.

Big fucking deal. 

**From: Camille**

**To: Romano, Veronika, Elizaveta**

Your poker face is terrible. You know we’re going to find out the truth sooner or later. Would you rather we heard the story from Jones?

**From: Romano**

**To: Camille, Veronika, Elizaveta**

You play fucking dirty. For the record, I hate you all. 

Fine. The bastard with the pink shorts wants me to meet him at the club tonight. Some bullshit or another about returning his stupid tacky panties and maybe getting a  private dance.

Like I give a fuck. 

**From: Elizaveta**

**To: Romano, Veronika, Camille**

Take pictures for us, you lucky little shit! 

**From: Romano**

**To: Elizaveta, Veronika, Camille**

….I’m not going to go. He’s probably a creepy stalker pervert or something.

**From: Camille**

**To: Romano, Elizaveta, Veronika**

He’s harmless. I know a shark when I see one. 

**From: Elizaveta**

**To: Romano, Veronika, Camille**

We wouldn’t have left you with him last night if weren’t sure he was totally safe. And hot. Really, really, hot. 

**From: Romano**

**To: Elizaveta, Camille, Veronika**

No fucking way am I going. Go away. 

**From: Veronika**

**To: Romano**

Roma, you know I love you, right? That you are my very best friend and I would do anything for you?

**From: Romano**

**To: Veronika**

….

….

yes

**From: Veronika**

**To: Romano**

Then know that I say this with your best interests at heart. If you don’t march your cute Italian ass into that club tonight and get a lap full of Spanish heat, I’ll kill you myself. 

Love you! xoxoxo!


	3. Chapter 3

By the time Romano strolled into the club at 6:57pm, his hangover had mellowed and he was dressed to the fucking nines, because if he had to return some guy’s pink panties he was sure as hell going to look good while doing it. But not even his best jeans and tailored shirt with skinny tie were enough to save him from the pissy bastard at the front of the joint who cocked a manicured blonde eyebrow and said, “Honey, please. Everyone’s here for Toni,” when Romano suavely asked after his…date…at the front desk. 

“Listen, the fucker asked me to meet him here tonight. 7pm.” Romano groused, slamming his hand on the desk and trying not to break a tooth from clenching his jaw so hard. When the pretty asshole laughed and kept right on filing his nails Romano penciled in an appointment to break-up with all his ladies ASAP for getting him into this shit. 

“Listen,” The guy drawled in return, doing a piss-poor job of imitating the gruffness of Romano’s intimidating growl, “Like if I had a dollar for every poor sucker who walked in claiming they had some sort of like total special connection with one of our boys, I wouldn’t need to go getting naked at 9pm. Sorry, sweetie, you aren’t going anywhere near backstage.” 

“So, what do you suggest I do?” Romano took a deep breath and shoved his hand in his pocket to grasp the tacky shorts that had brought him to this humiliation. It occurred to Romano that someone had to be a special kind of sorry to be ducking into an all male revue at 7pm on a Sunday night. He hoped Antonio was as hot as Veronika claimed because almost fuck all was worth this shit. He didn’t even want to be here, getting evil-eyed by some prissy guy with a fucking attitude, but the undies were burning a hole in his pocket and Veronika had claimed it was her last single-lady wish that her darling Roma get score some scorching tail on her behalf.

Romano had always been very self-sacrificing. 

Which was why he doubled-down on his glare and cowed the host into what was obviously nervous laughter and a frightened smile of surrender. 

His arch-nemesis clucked his tongue and shook his head, “Obvi! Go sit down and enjoy the show. Sugar-britches is on in 2.” 

Romano flushed and sneered as he beat a hasty retreat into the blessed darkness of the club, which didn’t quite feel the same without a gallon of gin swimming in stomach and making all the lights seem so shiny and nice. The chairs, however, were as uncomfortable and sticky as he remembered, and then Romano had to wonder what the fuck he had been doing sitting in front of the stage last night. He damned well hoped he hadn’t gone and wasted all his singles on asses that weren’t anywhere near as good as his own. 

So when the lights dimmed and smarmy fucking frog-voice announced the arrival of “the ripest tomato to have ever graced the plains of Spain,” Romano slumped a little lower, gripped his “call me, maybe” note between sweaty fingers and held his breath in anticipation. 

The guitars thrummed, the lights flashed, Beyonce and her girls said something about jelly, and then there was Romano’s ripe tomato stripping off a knock-off matador’s jacket and rolling his hips in filthy little circles.

Romano’s first thought was, “Thank fucking God it wasn’t just beer goggles. The bastard really is fucking hot.” 

The shorts were red but the ass was so good and there wasn’t a damned thing Romano would have rather seen at 7:02 on a Sunday than Antonio’s booty dropping to the ground, moving up and down. 

Romano’s second thought was, “I am definitely fucking ready for that jelly.” 

Antonio, it seemed, was physic because as soon as Romano risked to form illicit designs on “Spain’s” most fertile regions, he was confronted with big green eyes and a stupidly happy smile of recognition. Of course, Romano was unforgettable but half his nerves faded in the wake of a single wink because he was just really damned glad he hadn’t come all this way and put on his best tie to just have some asshole not remember him. He was also maybe a little glad that the gaze that wouldn’t leave him alone belonged to the ass that wouldn’t quit and the thighs that maybe made him want to weep. But then Romano had the misfortune of finding the curve of his lips cute even when the asshole was crawling across the stage on hands and knees to shake his ass in Romano’s face. 

Romano’s third thought was, “I am totally fucked.” 

Keeping up with his ESP, the bastard promptly turned to Romano and grabbed his tie, dragging him out of his stupid sticky chair so Romano could see the glitter on his skin and smell the sharp tang of soap. He wanted to taste both with his tongue, wanted to tell Antonio that he looked better in red and he should leave pink to the truly sexy. He wanted to kiss a plump bottom lip and forget that he’d ever gotten so drunk he’d somehow failed to stay awake long enough to put his hands on that ass and squeeze.

But then the fucker had the gall to smirk and waggle his eyebrows while he was pushing his ass into Romano’s face, like Romano was some desperate suburbanite with a crush. 

Romano’s fourth thought was, “Fuck that noise. I’m Romano Vargas, and if the ladies love me, you’re going to love me even more, asshole.” 

He was no one’s doe-eyed school girl and Romano had looked in the mirror often enough to know he was the hottest piece in the room that wasn’t currently dressed only in the skivvies. Antonio was good, Romano acknowledged, but he had no fucking idea that Romano was even better. Feeling reckless, possibly due to the loss of too many brain cells the night before, Romano pinched the bastard’s ass just hard enough to win the excited snap of green eyes. He smiled in that way that was irresistible whenever he actually bothered and pulled the pink fucking panties from his pocket, crooking a single finger of welcome as he laid them over his lap. And, oh, fuck, the flare of heat and amusement in the almost-stranger-stripper’s eyes was a goddamned masterpiece. 

“I would have made this private, you know,” Antonio breathed into his ear just as hot thighs spread over Romano’s lap and he was blessed with two handfuls of ass. “Given you the special treatment. But I’m glad you came.”

“I’m flattered, bastard,” Romano answered smugly, gratified by the hotness currently writhing in his lap because he was so goddamned good, even with a hangover and memories he couldn’t really remember. He knew he should care, knew he should probably stop groping and stop Antonio’s grinding because he still didn’t know how the idiot had gone home if he’d left his stupid pink shorts in Romano’s pocket, but Romano couldn’t find it in him to give a fuck. He stroked the soft skin of Antonio’s hip and wondered when he was going to end up tossed in a gutter for getting so handsy. 

Antonio smiled at him, all teeth and sincerity, which was really damned disturbing because this was a strip club on a Sunday and there wasn’t a lot of room for sweetness between his hard cock and Antonio’s hard ass. Romano had a horrifying suspicion he was smiling in return, which was even more disturbing because he didn’t know this guy, didn’t know what kind of moron would write their number on underwear, but between Alfred and pink panties and his lovely ladies, today had been all kinds of fucked up, so what was one more crazy decision? 

Romano laced his hands behind his head and smirked at Antonio’s wide, shamelessly pleased grin, arching his hips and watching as the bastard dragged pink spandex up and down his chest and then over Romano’s face. He ignored all the jealous glares from the lounge lizards, ignored all the reasons why this was a very bad idea and went for broke. 

“If you want private, have dinner with me later.” 

Antonio smiled almost shyly for a man who was all up on the Vargas treasures and leaned in so close his lips were on Romano’s ear as he went and reminded Romano why gin was very, very, very bad. 

“Yes! Good idea, if I’m going to be your date to the wedding.”


	4. Chapter 4

“So, Veronika tells me you plan to bring a stripper to her wedding.” Jos remarked coolly, exhaling cigar smoke directly into Romano’s face and reminding him why he was the Van Rijn nobody liked. 

Romano scoffed and stared at his cards. He didn’t have to give this bastard the time of day, even if Jos had known him since the day he caught Romano trying on different things for size and making out with Veronika in the Van Rijn garden-shed. 

Naturally because he was a gossipy moron with shit for brains, Alfred decided he somehow how had the authority to speak for Romano. Alfred cackled and rubbed his hands together, getting in on the action as he leaned in close to his soon-to-be-brother-in-law (who promptly leaned away and blew smoke in Alfred’s face too) and waggled his eyebrows, “Our little Roma scored big with one of the dancers from Veronika’s shindig.” 

“And you thought this person would be an appropriate wedding date?” Jos asked dryly, laying his cards on the table and smirking as he won yet another pot. 

“So the fuck what if I did?” Romano’s cheeks flushed as he slumped in his seat and tried to ignore the curious stares from Jones’ other cronies. Like he needed to explain his choices to American, a perverted Dutchman, and Jones’ bored brother. Like these bastards needed to know that he didn’t really remember sticking his tongue down Antonio’s throat and then demanding a date for the wedding because Romano “wanted to make everyone jealous of his swag.”

(Not a little horrified that he used the word “swag,” Romano hadn’t believed the smiling asshole when he’d unraveled the whole story of Romano’s adventures in drunken decision making. It was damned hard to take Antonio seriously when he’d scratched his head and been entirely shameless in explaining how Romano had seemed so attached to his favorite pink stripper-shorts that he snuck into Romano’s bathroom while Romano was so adorably passed out on the couch and then tucked them in his pants pocket so maybe Romano would remember Antonio when he woke up.

Romano had been too busy massaging his temples and wondering why the hot ones were always so fucking weird to feel any sympathy when Antonio had sighed and claimed that his jeans had really chafed during the eight block walk home from Romano’s apartment. But then Antonio had proceeded to make eating a breadstick look like something out of one of Elizaveta’s pornos and there had been one face-meltingly good kiss outside of Romano’s building, so Romano figured it was A-OK if he’d made the apparently fantastic choice to ask someone almost as hot as he was to be his date to Veronika’s wedding). 

But that was neither here nor there and these bag-of-dicks who kept beating him at cards definitely didn’t deserve any tips on how to be a stud even when three fucking sheets to the wind. 

“If Veronika doesn’t care, I don’t really care,” Van Rijn drawled, ashing his cigar. “I just hadn’t realized you were so desperate you needed to pay for it, Vargas.” 

Romano tossed back his shitty American liquor and glared across the table, “I’ll cut you, motherfucker.”

“As if you could reach my throat to try.”

“Hey, do you think we could play some poker and maybe leave the pissing contest until later?” Matthew chimed in mildly, while Alfred laughed hysterically.

“I’m happy to take more of your money,” the Dutch asshole said smugly, eyeing Romano’s dwindling stash of chips.

There was an arm around his shoulders and whiskey breath in his face. “I dunno, Jos, maybe you better take it easy on Darling Roma. He might need some of those single later to put in stripper-boys pink panties!” 

“Jones. If you want to have your bait and tackle in tact for your wedding night I suggest you get the fuck off me right fucking now!” Romano growled, suddenly regretting that he’d ever had a single bad thought about his gentle, sweet, loving ladies. Anything was better than being stuck in this room of sweaty, badly dressed morons who probably were just fucking jealous of his swag. 

“Could we not discuss my sister’s wedding night?” Jos muttered, looking a little green as he dealt the cards and took a shot of liquor. 

Romano grinned cruelly. Payback was a such a pretty bitch. “What? You don’t want to know how much little sis enjoyed receiving some big packages at her party?” He turned to Alfred, not wanting to leave the man of the hour of out his revenge scheme. “I’m sure it was a nice change from the norm.” 

“And here I thought we were friends!” Alfred declared, one hand clasped over his heart and the other over his crotch. 

Jos’ stupid smirk was now a gorgeous little frown of distaste. Romano enjoyed his victory over the asshole alliance, but it was a victory that was short-lived as he was unexpected stabbed in the back by the sneaky fucking Canadian. 

“Would one of those large packages belong to your date, Romano?” Matthew asked blandly, not even glancing up from his cards as he twisted the knife in deeper. “I’ve heard of best friends sharing everything, but this just takes it to another level.” 

Romano shook his head, reluctantly impressed by Matthew’s subtle evilness. “None of your goddamned business.” 

“Sorry you feel that way.” Mathhew sighed, reordering his cards, “I guess if I wanted to make it my business I’d have to go down to the Love Shack and shell out a couple of twenties.” Matthew smiled innocently while Romano spluttered on sudden jealous rage and tried not to spit bad bourbon all over the table. “Oh, and I’ve got an ace high flush, so I’m going to need you to give me all your chips now.” 

Romano shoved his meager stack of chips at the evil bastard, growling, “You can have my goddamned money but stay away from Antonio.” 

“Aww, that’s so cute!” Alfred cooed, pinching his flaming cheek. “Romano’s all jealous that someone else might try to climb his stripper’s pole.” 

Out of money and out of patience, Romano slammed his hands down on the table so hard Van Rijn’s perfect little towers collapses and his curl quivered. “If you’d seen his goddamned pole, you’d understand why there’s only gonna be one flag flying and its going to be mine, you assholes!” 

(Again, it was neither here nor there that he hadn’t actually seen Antonio’s pole because for all that he’d had his hands all over an ass covered in spandex and maybe had his tongue inside Antonio’s mouth a few times, there was something so irritatingly endearing in the way the bastard looked at him like he was new and exciting that kept Romano from wanting to rush the sweetness into sex. Like these fuckers needed to know he was maybe, sort-of, kind of a romantic. Even when it came to guys with ridiculous stripper names like SPAIN.) 

“Seriously, bro, I don’t think you need to worry about me and Mattie trying to score our very own pink-panty love note,” Alfred said once he’d finally recovered enough from his obviously terrified laughter. He shrugged, “Not real sure about Jos.”

“As though I would want a Vargas cast-off,” Jos scoffed, lighting another smoke and cracking his knuckles when Matthew gazed at his fortress of fortune. 

Like an ugly sonofabitch like Jos would ever be able to score a hot piece like Antonio. But he couldn’t let such a slight on his skills and his impeccable taste go unchallenged. Romano took a deep breath, smoothed down his upset hair and scowled at the bastard Van Rijn. “Alfred’s marrying a Vargas cast-off.” 

“Hey!” Alfred yelped while Van Rijn rolled his eyes and muttered,

“I don’t really think playing seven minutes in heaven with my sister when you were sixteen counts.” 

“Whaaaaaaat?” Alfred shrieked so loudly Matthew had to put a hand over his mouth. Apparently Jones was drunk enough to consider licking his brother’s palm an appropriate form of vengeance (fucking amateur) because his stupid lips were quickly flapping again, “You’ve kissed my almost wife?!” 

Romano smirked, suddenly feeling like this goddawful bachelor party might not be so bad after all. He laced his hands behind his head and propped his feet on Jones’ table, smiling slyly as he said, “That’s right. Be jealous of all my fucking swag.”


	5. Chapter 5

Veronika van Rijn -Jones’ wedding day was perfect, which Romano took as incontrovertible proof of God’s existence, because only the Lord could have blessed his beautiful girl with sunny skies and a ceremony that didn’t leave a dry eye in the house. He wasn’t ashamed that he’d shed a tear or a hundred because crying at weddings was fucking manly and there were only so many lovely ladies he could take in one place at one time without getting a little choked-up. There had been a hand holding his as Romano listened to her say “I do,” and watched Alfred’s ridiculous face go all screwy with repressed American emotion. Then there had been a handkerchief between his fingers and a soft, nice pair of lips against his ear, murmuring, “They look so happy.”

Romano had wiped his eyes, smiled as that idiot Jones kissed his bride, and given his benediction, “And they always fucking will be.”

And then he’d been kissed himself, sweet and too quick in the seconds before they were all on their feet, clapping until their hands hurt while Veronika and Alfred lit up the damned room with the wattage of their “just-married” smiles.

The reception, which came with far fewer tears and far more alcohol, only further proved the glory of God and the righteousness of Romano. As it turned out, drunk-Romano had excellent decision making skills. Antonio didn’t just look so fucking good in a suit and tie that it made Romano’s pants uncomfortably tight, but he also happened to be able to rub two brain cells together and pull off a decent conversation. Between Romano’s charm and Antonio’s almost too good to be true sunshine and spice smile, they had half the wedding guests eating from the palms of their hands before the first course had even been served. Stripper or not, Antonio was a goddamned good date.

Even better than the warm, casual press of Antonio’s fingers over his knee while Romano ate the boring salad with boring dressing that was a staple of wedding receptions everywhere, was the absolute expression of piss and vinegar on the bastard Van Rijn’s face when Mama Van Rijn cooed over Antonio and Romano and declared them the second most perfect couple in the room. Romano smirked, pressed a kiss to Antonio’s cheek just to lay it on really thick and watch the fucker stew in his impotent “my sister won’t let me smoke on her special day” rage.

He didn’t think he’d ever been more delighted by seating arrangements in his life, Sicilian blood pumping happily with the prospect of exacting beautiful, post-bachelor party revenge. The asshole deserved it, Romano thought smugly. He deserved having his own mama fawn all over Romano’s date, deserved it right up through the main course and maybe into the cake cutting because sometimes it just felt good to real dig the knife in deep.

It also didn’t hurt that Antonio sighed happily every time Romano’s lips met even the most innocent and dull patch of skin, like getting a schoolgirl kiss from Romano was some kind of prize. But when the idiot nuzzled his nose in Romano’s hair as if they were lovers instead of a honorary-bridesmaid and his stripper-date, Romano was starting to wonder what the fuck was up. He had swag, sure. Charm, abso-fucking-lutely. He was good looking even when he was bad looking, and he supposed when he wasn’t trying to exact revenge on the brother of the bride he was a pretty decent guy, but even Romano couldn’t be entirely fucking sure that the scent of his shampoo was worth so much damned attention.

“What’s your deal?” Romano grumbled quietly, blushing when Antonio’s hand crept a little further up his leg that was probably acceptable with Veronika’s mama only two seats away.

“What do you mean, sweetheart?” Antonio blinked at him, all green-eyed innocence that had no place on the face of a man who had written his phone number on pink underwear and then put his pole in Romano’s face before they’d even been on a first date.

“That’s what I mean, bastard!” Romano hissed, standing up to drag them towards the dance floor and granting Van Rijn a reprieve from Romano’s fabulosity because he couldn’t exact revenge and turn red from blushing at the same damned time. Antonio looked confused, maybe a little hurt, definitely still really fucking hot. Romano pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, “Calling me sweetheart, sniffing my hair, giving me your fucking hankie.”

“Oh!” Antonio said brightly, crowding in close and apparently feeling free to put his hands on Romano’s waist. “I’m just trying to be a good boyfriend.”

Romano’s sense of reality flickered for a moment, Antonio’s nice smile blurring around the edges while he tried not to choke as he coughed out, “Boyfriend? What the fuck?”

Antonio’s smile dimmed, “We’ve been on five dates and you took me to your best friend’s wedding. I thought that’s what you wanted from me.”

Romano blinked and tried to remember when the fuck he’d had time to go on five dates. He shook his head, “Bastard, are you counting the time I passed out and your put your man-panties in my pocket? And the next day when I got up close and personal with your Spanish tomatoes in a room full of desperate Sunday drunks?”

Antonio’s smile returned, the soft curl of lips that did weird things to Romano’s unfailing calm. Romano thought if the bastard kept looking at him like that, he might not even give too much of a shit that he had apparently scored a boyfriend that thought strip clubs passed for a romantic evening out. But he knew he was screwed, caught hook, line and sinker, when Antonio touched the corner of his mouth, licked the edge of his doubting scowl before murmuring, “I count every time we’ve kissed.”

“Fuck, you’re cheesy for a stripper,” Romano muttered once they’d stopped making a very good kissing scene in the middle of Veronika’s reception. Romano thought he heard applause but he couldn’t be sure if that was for his skill at bagging hot Spanish ass or because the bride and groom had done something cute again.

Antonio laughed and dragged his thumb of Romano’s now very shiny lips. “You think so?”

Romano nipped the thumb and smirked, “Bastard, I know so.”

“Oh my god, you two need to cut it out!” Veronika squealed, throwing her arms around Romano’s neck and tugging him into a warm hug that smelled like perfume, champagne, and happiness. “Seriously, everyone’s too busy wondering when Rome’s gonna catch fire and burn to pay attention to little old me and Al.”

Romano flushed and kissed her cheeks, before holding her at arm’s length and whistling.  “Don’t be fucking stupid. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Who wouldn’t want to look at you?”

Veronika laughed, light and free and so happy it made Romano’s heart hurt just a little in the best possible way. She curled her fingers in his tie and winked, “Oh, Roma! Your macho bullshit has always been my favorite bullshit.” Romano rolled his eyes as she turned her gaze to Antonio, who was just standing there being sexy and giving Romano a dippy grin of too much affection. “You take good care of him,” Veronika warned merrily, “Or the girls and I will make sure you see never see another twenty disappearing into those adorable pink skivvies.”

“I promise,” Antonio said, sweet and earnest and not at all like a man who’d groped him in the coat-closet for ten minutes before they’d taken their seats for dinner. “And I’ve also promised your husband the same.”

“Jesus, what the hell is wrong with you people?!” Romano grumbled, wondering how he got saddled with such overprotective idiots for friends.

Veronika just looked delighted, crowding into Antonio’s space and asking with way too many stars in her eyes, “My Alfred intimidated you to defend Romano’s honor?”

“Yes, he told me that if I did anything to hurt his wife’s Darling Roma, there’s nowhere I could hide. Not even if it meant he had to come to the club and see a lot of wang to get to me.” Antoni explained blithely, as though threats against his person were to be expected and Romano’s friends weren’t actually a group of nosy freaks.

“He’s so perfect,” Veronika sighed, gaze drifting across the room to find Alfred’s smiling face. Antonio nodded in agreement, proving that he, too, was an idiot and therefore going to fit in just fine with Romano’s circle of interfering lunatics. It would figure that his boyfriend would be a total weirdo.

“Damn it, Veronika.” Romano grumbled, “You make me sound like some sort of fucking pretty princess.”

Veronika smirked and patted his cheek, “Oh, sweetheart. Do you really want me to go for the obvious joke?”

To his horror, the bastard smirked and patted his other cheek. “You are very pretty, Romano.” Romano’s eyes went wide as Antonio leaned in very close and whispered, “And I’m alright with the fucking part, too.”

Romano’s pants got a little tighter, the night got a little brighter, and then Veronika laughed, kissed him fondly and ran-off, white dress fluttering over the dance floor as she called out,

“See you at bouquet toss, lover-boy!”

Antonio smiled. Romano cursed his taste in lovers and friends and needed a drink.

~~

After a shedding a few more tears watching Mr. and Mrs. van Rijn-Jones sway around the dance floor to Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World,” Romano believed he needed to replenish the liquids in body with as much champagne as possible. Antonio’s fingers were tapping lazily on his waist and he was pretty sure the bastard was sniffling like maybe watching two people he didn’t know shuffle together was worth crying over. Romano dared a peek at his date’s face and then brushed a finger against the corner of his eye, proof of Antonio’s patheticness glistening and wet on the tip. 

Seemed like the bastard could use a drink, too.

Romano cleared his throat and then licked the shell of Antonio’s ear, because it also seemed like the bastard needed a distraction from the sight of Jones’ gross sentimentality getting all over Veronika’s flawless beauty. “Buy you a drink?” 

“Its an open bar, sweetheart.” Antonio laughed lowly, hand tightening on Romano’s hip like it belonged there or some shit. 

Romano smirked and pinched the asshole’s side, “Its the fucking thought that counts.” 

Antonio smiled, kissed his cheek. “I like that you think of me.” 

Romano flushed and rolled his eyes, dragging his loser of a date away from the dance floor and towards the bar. “Do you sit at home at night and think up lines that lame?” 

“I think you know exactly what I do most nights,” Antonio tossed back easily, crowding into Romano’s space with his big green eyes and sunshine grin. “But, yes, lately I’ve been wondering how to impress a certain someone.” Romano bit his lip and shook his head, uncertain of what to do with someone who just went and told the goddamned truth all the time. Antonio kissed the tip of his nose, which was fucking obscene, before handing Romano a glass of bubbly and murmuring, “Ah, this reminds me of our first date.” 

“You’re one weird guy, but whatever floats your damned boat.” Romano grumbled, champagne burning down his throat as he curved into Antonio’s easy embrace and watched Veronika and all his bevy of beauties conspire in the middle of the dance floor. It made him smile to imagine their laughter, happy and bright on this very special fucking occasion. It made him worry to wonder what the hell they were plotting without him in the thick of their bosoms, the cackling harpies. 

“You float my boat!” Antonio declared shamelessly, grinning from ear to ear, apparent unrepentant for his sheer lameness. Romano decided the only solution was to kiss the idiot before he said more stupid shit that made his stomach do irritating somersaults. For a second Romano thought the bastard was smirking, lips all tilted and smug against his own, but then there was a tongue in his mouth chasing the taste of champagne and he was making out with a stripper at his best friend’s wedding for then tenth time that night. 

Romano was just about to do something really wicked with his teeth and Antonio’s shiny, sweet bottom lip when the first notes permeated the haze of a little bit of liquor and a shit-ton of lust. He paused with Antonio’s tongue still halfway down his throat to listen to a beat that some days he thought he knew better than the Lord’s Prayer. He smirked and tugged on Antonio’s shirt, giving him one last filthy good kiss to leave the bastard wanting just a little more and then pushed him away. 

“Romano?” Antonio asked, all wet lips and pretty confusion while Romano drained his glass and loosened his tie, already warming to the “Rah-rah-ah-ah-Roma-Roma” and the needs of three beautiful women who weren’t to be denied. 

“Look alive, bastard,” Romano said, grasping Antonio’s chin between two fingers and pointing at his ladies where they waited on the dance floor, wanting—no, needing—a little of Romano in their lives. Romano licked his lips and smacked Antonio’s ass, “You’re going to want to watch this. I’m about to show you that you aren’t the only asshole in the room that knows how to fucking dance.” 

He could feel the weight Antonio’s amusement, his curiosity burning hole in the back of his head, but Romano was already caught up in a bad romance from the second his designed shoes hit the edge of the dance floor. Elizaveta’s fingers were in his loosened tie, pulling and tugging at him like the demanding dame that she was and always would be, dragging him into a circle of wicked, happy beauties that all wanted a piece of the Vargas family heirlooms. 

Romano was more than willing to oblige because he loved these ladies more than he loved all the other ladies and this was his special lady’s big night. He hoped Antonio was taking notes when he had Camille’s hips between his hands and Veronika draped over his back, all three of them shifting and rolling in time while Elizaveta’s hands were in places they shouldn’t have damned well been, unbuttoning and untying things like Romano was the damned stripper. It was a scene they’d played out time and time again, in clubs, in bars, and a few times in Camille’s living room, drunk and ridiculous while they danced and sang and didn’t give a fuck. 

Romano could hear Jones hooting and hollering over Lady GaGa’s protestations that she didn’t want to be friends, alright?! He could smell what was left of Veronika’s perfume when she hugged him tightly and then dropped it like it was so fucking hot Romano’s tights burned from the effort. He could feel her laughter against his chest and the curls that had fallen loose from her up-do between the fingers he splayed at the back of her neck. He hoped Antonio was watching because Romano was pretty fucking certain he’d never had more swag than he did in this very moment. 

“Please tell me you’re going to take him home tonight,” Veronika shouted over the last of the Roma-Roma-ma-ma’s. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Thinking about the sex I’m going to have on your wedding night?” Romano scoffed, dipping her low more time and kissing her flushed cheek. 

Veronika smirked, “My marriage has already been consummated. I can’t help but make sure you break in your new relationship before I go away on my honeymoon and leave you all alone.” 

Romano pulled her upright and tried not to roll his eyes when Veronika waved at Alfred and blew him kisses. “Let me guess. You did it in the fucking limo on the way from the courthouse.” 

“You know me too well.” Veronika said sweetly, closing her eyes and touching her lips to his forehead while she futzed with his tie.

Romano hummed his agreement and peered over her shoulder to find Antonio staring at him with naked, gorgeous, lust. It was a damned good look. Romano stopped her hands. “You can leave that undone. Its just gonna come off in a minute anyway.” 

“That’s my Roma!” Veronika giggled and slipped the tie off entirely, murmuring, “Thanks for being here today. I love you, I’ll send you a postcard from Tahiti, and now please, please go put that darling man out of his misery before something truly indecent happens at my wedding.” 

“You mean other than what you and that idiot Jones already did?” Romano smirked and kissed Veronika one last time, kissed lips that tasted like friendship and fondness. “But why the fuck not? Who am I to deny the bride on her wedding day?” 

~~

“That was hot,” Antonio whispered hotly into Romano’s appreciative ear as he sauntered off the dance floor and tucked his fingers into Antonio’s belt-loops, ready to get the fucking show on the road.

“I know.” Romano said smugly, as if there was any doubt that anything he did was anything other than hot. He tilted his head towards the exit and licked his lips, “Maybe if you’re good I’ll give you a private show.”

“You’re going to dance for me?” Antonio’s eyebrows arched with interest, voice rough and happy just the way Romano’s cock seemed to like it. Romano shrugged nonchalantly, like it was no big fucking deal to offer a little bump and grind to a man who made a living shaking that ass. Antonio’s smile turned dangerous. Romano’s libido also took a direct interest in this. A hand curled around his hip and words curled around lust and stroked. “In that case, sweetheart, tell me how to be good for you.”

Romano shivered and licked his lips again. “Step one. Take me home, bastard.”

~~

Twenty minutes and one very inappropriate cab ride later, Romano was finding it really damned difficult to be a man of his word. Not because he didn’t want to shove Antonio onto his couch, straddle his lap and roll his hips so good the asshole begged Romano to give to him just a little more, just a little harder. No, Romano was being kept from fulfilling all his wicked intentions and arrogant promises by a stubborn bastard who wouldn’t stop kissing him long enough to let Romano turn on some music and get down to fucking business.

Instead of showing off his skills, He was on his back on his bed with Antonio’s dress shirt wrinkling between his fingers and his lips all stinging and warm. It was hard to remember that he was supposed to be in charge when Antonio was spilling all these filthy fucking noises into his mouth and pushing his hard cock against Romano’s thigh, like he was so needy for it he’d be happy to make out like teenagers until they came in their pants. Antonio pulled his hair and sucked on his tongue, groaned when Romano arched off the bed, raked his nails down back, and tore away gasping for air.

Antonio chased his mouth because he was a greedy, disobedient little shit. Romano brought a reluctant hand to the bastard’s chest and pushed, toppling him onto his back.

“What? What’s wrong?” Antonio asked roughly, like Romano’s lips and tongue had cut new grooves in his voice, which was really, unfairly fucking sexy.

Romano snorted and straddled Antonio’s thighs. “You’re not very good at following instructions are you, Boss?”

“I never heard any.” Antonio rolled his hips and smiled, hands already reaching for Romano’s shoulders.

Romano shook his head and slapped the hands away, “I wonder why that was, bastard. Probably because I had your damned tongue down my throat.”

“I’m sorry.” Antonio answered, sounding any but sorry.

Romano smirked and dipped his head to lick at the unrepentant edges of Antonio’s grin, fingers grasping the asshole’s lapels. “No, you aren’t. But you’re going to be.”

The sound Antonio made when Romano ripped his shirt open, little buttons scattering over his bedspread and rattling on his bedroom floor curled Romano’s toes and drove him a little out of his fucking mind. He crushed his lips to Antonio’s shocked mouth and chased the rumbles of pleasure while he pinched Antonio’s nipples and rolled his hips to get more friction, needing the satisfaction of Antonio pushing and pulling against him.

It wasn’t the lap-dance he’d intended, but Romano figured it was just as good to be have his thighs spread over Antonio’s waist and his ass rubbing up and down Antonio’s cock. He was pretty fucking certain that if he snapped his fingers and demanded a dollar, Antonio would have emptied his wallet to make sure Romano kept riding the sweet arch and writhe of his body, to make sure Romano kept kissing his plump bottom lip and whispering dirty secrets in his ear.

He rocked back on his heels, just far enough to get into Antonio’s pants because Romano thought it was insane that he was about to fuck a stripper and they were both still wearing so many clothes. Antonio’s hands were everywhere, pulling at his shirt and trying to cup him through his pants, distracting Romano for the ten seconds his eyes squeezed shut when Antonio stroked him through slacks and drawers.

But when he opened his eyes, he had to blink, once, twice, three times to make sure he wasn’t having a lust-induced hallucination.

“Bastard, are you wearing what I think you’re wearing?” Romano breathed out, trying not to laugh as he dragged two fingers over a hard dick wrapped up in pink spandex and smudged black ink.

“I was wearing them when I met you. And they brought you back to me. So they’re my lucky shorts.” Antonio said sweetly, stupidly, like that made any kind of fucking sense. Antonio pushed into his touch and smiled shamelessly, looking so fucking pretty in his pink shorts and torn shirt, lips all red and stung from Romano’s mouth and hair ruined by Romano’s hands, that Romano hated him just a little for being so goddamned irresistible.

“Hoping to get lucky tonight?” Romano asked, slipping his hand beneath spandex to feel the weight of Antonio’s cock in his palm, thumb tracing the head and brushing over the slit while Antonio’s mouth fell open and his eyes fluttered shut. “Yeah,” Romano breathed, watching Antonio’s chest rise and fall, listening to his rasping sighs as he circled his fingers and stroked, “Yeah, you’re going to get fucking lucky.”

“Please, sweetheart.” Antonio asked, begging the way he should because Romano was just that good.

Romano scrambled out of his pants and rid Antonio of his lucky drawers, pushing them into the bastard’s clutching hand while he scrambled to find lube. Antonio kissed his chest, licked his nipples, scraped his teeth over his throat and generally made a fucking nuisance of himself as Romano dug through his bedside table and tried not to come from the feeling of their cocks dragging together, all naked heat and rough touch.

“Stop, goddamnit,” Romano ordered, biting Antonio’s ear as he fumbled with the bottle and slicked his palm.

“No,” Antonio refused, shocking the hell out of Romano when he wrapped spandex around his neck and dragged him down into a filthy kiss that had him falling back into the spread of Antonio’s thighs.

Romano bit Antonio’s lip and pushed his wet hand between their bodies, wondering if he’d even have time to get his hand around both of their cocks and stroke before the situation was too far gone. He struggled but Antonio wouldn’t let up,  kept Romano in his pink prison, kept kissing him and arching his his hips into Romano’s grasping touch. Romano swallowed Antonio’s moans, sucked the sighs from his tongue and licked into the kiss as he managed to curl his fingers around Antonio’s cock and stroke.

Antonio moved like he was on fire, like Romano was making him crazy, which was just stupid, because Romano thought he was going to lose his goddamned mind if Antonio didn’t touch him soon. He thought that Antonio fucked like he danced, all hips and smiles and temptation. He thought Antonio kissed like Romano felt, all possessiveness and passion and playing for keeps.

“Fuck, fuck, touch me,” Romano murmured when Antonio let him breathe, pink shorts falling to the wayside when Antonio kept one hand on the side of his face and finally pushed the other between the tangle of their bodies.

“I like it when you say fuck,” Antonio slurred, pushing into Romano’s strokes and wrapping his fingers around Romano’s cock.

Romano moaned and dropped his head to Antonio’s shoulder, rambling, “That’s good. I say it all the fucking time.”

“Then we’ll be doing this all the fucking time.” Antonio’s mouth was hot and biting against his throat, leaving marks that were sure to be seen at the post-wedding brunch. “Because I can’t resist you.”

Romano’s eyes closed, his spine bowed and his lips parted around a final “fuck” as he came in Antonio’s hand, come threading between the press of the hips. Antonio turned his face and kissed him wildly, kissed him through all the gasps and moans until Romano felt Antonio go rigid and then turn hot and sweet in his fingers.

Antonio rolled him on to his back and littered Romano’s face, his neck, his shoulders with kisses while Romano tried to remember how to breathe and brought sticky fingers to his mouth, licking Antonio’s come from his thumb. Antonio watched with hazy interest so Romano gave him a little show, figuring it was the least he could do since he didn’t really follow through on the private dance. He curled his tongue around each tip, pressed his mouth to his palm and tasted bitter-salt.

“You’re pretty irresistible, too, bastard.” Romano murmured roughly, liking the way Antonio sprawled hot and heavy over his chest as though he didn’t have anywhere else to be.

Antonio smiled and leaned up to kiss him, soft and slow. “I’m glad you think so.’

Romano eyed the shiny shorts at the bottom of the bed and laughed, kissing Antonio’s happy grin. “Or maybe its just the shorts.”


End file.
